February 18, 2013

For the past few weeks I've been punishing myself the way only a woman can because I'm convinced my new job is making me fat. Everyone at my office is utterly lovely and treats appear for every occasion/non-occasion, and now that we can afford to eat regular food at home instead of ramen and cans of green beans, well, I have concerns, is all I'm saying. This morning I finally stepped on the scale to calculate how many hours per day I should spend flogging myself and crying and discovered I have gained... one pound. I am now having a donut. If money and metabolism allowed I would live on frozen taquitos and indian food alone. It's probably a good thing I'm not rich.

Sunday morning we were awoken by a chorus of, "Dad! Dad! Dad! Daddy! Dad! Dad? Dad!" from Jude's room at an hour much too early for standard brain function. He's been on a tear lately and insists that Jon appear at the crack of dawn to entertain him. After the fifth shout of, "DAD? What's that sound? IS THAT YOU?" I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled towards his room, except as I rounded the corner I saw that the ghost attic door, directly across from his room, which closes with a sliding lock, was standing open. I turned around and walked the other direction because OH HELL NO. Jon asserts that our recent houseguests mustn't have latched it all the way, which is a plausible theory except it's still so goddamn creepy.

Attn houseguests: Did you thoroughly latch this door? Please respond asap so I know whether or not to bring an extra donut home for my ghost.

Jude has recently stumbled upon the eternal treasure trove of humor that is butts and farts. Never has my life been so full of shouts of "You look like a ...BOOTY-BUTT!" followed by maniacal laughter. Hey, I can't even be mad, that's a pretty funny joke. In the car the other day he told us that his best friend told him a secret, and the secret was that they are special brothers. "I'm his brother, and he's my brother. That's our secret." Then their tiny bro-love killed me forever and I died.

Jude's ridiculousness has reached such enormous levels I no longer have any idea how to translate it into words, though I feel like I ought to so I can remember it forever and never let it go. Quotes alone don't do justice to what it's like to have a conversation with him anymore, so when people ask me about my kid I've taken to telling them I gave birth to Bam Margera. He has started calling me Bro-Mom, and I've been instructed that Gangnam Style is HIS JAM and "THAT OTHER WEIRD MUSIC" is my Bro-Mom jam.

I have never been more proud that I didn't give birth to a boring, suburban human. I'd rather hang out with him than 90% of the adults I know, even though he rolls the dice and comes up asshole 70% of the time. Those seem like pretty standard odds for someone three and a half, so I'm not holding it against him. I can't wait for him to be a teenager so we can eat cereal and fight and watch cartoons. That's pretty much what we do now except I won't have to feel guilty if he says butt all the time.

I am thisclose to going crazy and cutting his beautiful snowboarder hair. We all dig his current style, Jude especially, but he refuses to let me brush it so most of the time he runs around looking like a mop that took a bad turn through a meat grinder. If something doesn't give I'm going to sneak into his room in the night and chop it all off and laugh, oh how I will laugh and laugh.

TRY AND PUNCH ME NOW, HAIRBRUSH HATER. Sounds like something Bam Margera's mom would do. Mess with the best, die like the rest.